


takes a bit more

by ymorton



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 03:33:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4206396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ymorton/pseuds/ymorton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>niall, plus harry and nick</p>
            </blockquote>





	takes a bit more

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on tumblr, may 2014. set in spring 2014. 
> 
> come say hi [here](http://www.ihavea1dbloghelp.tumblr.com)

They’re smoking up in Brazil, just the two of them, when Harry brings up Nick for the first time in a long time. 

“I think I hurt him,” Harry says, thick and slow, and Niall takes the joint from him, taps ash off into a saucer and sucks hard. 

“Who?” he says, letting smoke spill from between his lips, savoring it. 

“Grimmy,” Harry says, looking down, playing idly with his phone. Niall watches him flick from Instagram to Twitter back to Instagram. 

“Can you fix it?” Niall asks, taking another hit. “He’s like, a good mate. Int he?" 

"I can’t give him what he wants,” Harry says, quietly. 

“What’s he want?" 

Harry looks at him, pulls a face and takes the joint back. 

"Me, I suppose,” he says. 

“Shit, mate." 

Harry hunches over as he takes a hit, rubs a palm through his hair and exhales. 

"I can’t- I just - I can’t, like. Be that way with him, right now,” he says vaguely. “And he knows that. And it’s so -  _shit_ , Nialler. It’s shit cos he lets me be a dick to him." 

"Bet you’re not a dick." 

"He’ll let me just - you know. Whenever I’m in London. Because he - he’s so stupid. He thinks he’s not good enough for, like, a proper boyfriend.”

Niall leans against the headboard.  

“And he’s- going through stuff,” Harry says. “Just. I just feel shit. Don’t you ever feel like that, about people? Like it’s - hard, like, to keep up with them when they’re far away. Like I care about them but all I ever get is, like. Texts and pictures and whatever, and I don’t really know about their life and they don’t really know about mine. Not  _really_." 

"Yeah, I know,” Niall says, stubbing the joint out in the saucer and setting it on the side table, sliding down into bed. His head’s fuzzy, and he feels warm and close to Harry and a bit sad, a bit thinky. It’s the oddest thing, that weed makes him a little melancholy. With Liam it’s booze - he’ll start moping after a couple shots, then keep throwing them back until Zayn or Niall or any of them carefully takes his phone away and puts him to bed. 

No one ever really puts Niall to bed. He can handle himself, is the thing. He can always handle himself, get himself to sleep, get himself sorted. 

He wouldn’t mind being a mess, sometime. Just to see if someone would clean him up. 

God, what the hell is he even saying. He shakes himself, re-adjusts the pillow under his head and watches as Harry curls up next to him, kicking one of his long legs out under the duvet, toes brushing Niall’s calf. 

“S'pose it’s just, like, part of doing what we do,” Niall says muzzily into the pillow, tugging the duvet up. It’s late, and they have a show tomorrow, which is why they’re smoking instead of drinking. “You know? Grimmy knows that. He knows you aren’t gonna be around all the time." 

Harry looks at him, his eyes dark and wide and stoned. They’re on their sides facing each other, and Niall can feel Harry’s breath on his face.  

"Sometimes I pretend, like, that we’re older, and together,” Harry says, brow scrunching up. “That everything’s gotten a bit less crazy. And, like. That we just do all the stupid normal stuff, yeah? You know?" 

"I dunno,” Niall mumbles. 

“Cooking, and walking the bloody dog, and everything.” Harry scratches at his eyebrow. “I think we were in love, Nialler. Like. Really properly in love, maybe. Or I was, at least." 

"Shit,” Niall says, because he doesn’t have anything else. He’s never been in love. 

“Yeah." 

"What’s it like, then?" 

"What?" 

"Being in love.” Niall closes his eyes, like Harry’s going to tell it like a bedtime story. He’s not sure why he’s asking, really, but it seems, like. He just wonders, a bit. He wonders if it’s like when he thought he was in love with Zayn a couple years back, that sort of queasy ache of excitement every time Zayn paid attention to him. Or like how he felt after he had sex with Barbara for the first time, and she went all quiet and soft afterwards, and Niall held her and felt his chest clench up tight. 

But all that went away, and Niall doesn’t feel it now. 

Sometimes he lets himself spiral down the rabbit hole and think about how he might never feel like that. Might never have that same kind of fierce lasting love that Louis and Zayn have with El and Perrie, or have his heart broken like Liam. 

It’s alright. Liam says he’s lucky. Niall feels pretty fucking lucky, most of the time. 

Harry doesn’t answer for a second, and Niall opens his eyes. Harry’s staring past his shoulder. 

“You’re fucked,” Niall laughs, reaching out and pretending to poke Harry in the eye. Harry flinches away, makes a sad little sound. 

“Heyyyy." 

"Heyyy,” Niall imitates. 

“Anyway.” Harry shifts around in bed, yawns. “Being in love’s like feeling all - bubbly all the time. Like you just want to see them, and get their attention, and have jokes with them and  _touch_  them, fuck. Always wanted to touch him." 

His eyes fall shut, and Niall swallows, throat dry. From the pot, of course. Just that. 

"When did you?” he asks. “Like, when did you and him -" 

"When’d I touch him?” Harry says, peering at him. He raises an eyebrow. “Niall, you tart. Didn’t know you moonlighted as a writer for the Mirror.”

“Shut up,” Niall snorts. 

Harry moves closer, and Niall doesn’t really know where to look. He closes his eyes. 

“The first time? It was just, like, a normal night,” Harry says softly. “I was at his place, having a couple drinks, and I fell asleep in his bed. Cos he let me sleep in his bed, sometimes, if I was pissed.”

He laughs. “Sometimes I pretended I was pissed just so he’d let me." 

"Maaate,” Niall laughs, opening his eyes, and Harry shrugs sheepishly. 

“Do what you have to do, don’t you?" 

"So you were sleeping in his bed,” Niall says, and then goes hot all down his neck. 

Harry looks at him - nothing like malice in his face, just fond curiosity. 

Niall grins, sticks his tongue out, to distract from the stupid blush on his face, and thankfully Harry doesn’t grill him, just goes on talking. 

“So he got into bed, and I was there, awake, and drunk, and just, like. Thinking about him. Thinking about touching him, you know?" 

Harry’s voice is hushed, like he’s telling secrets. Niall feels like he’s hearing a secret, and it gives him a sweet little twist of pleasure, Harry whispering to him. 

"And he smelled good,” Harry says, hitching in a little breath. “Felt good. And I knew he was up for it, like." 

Harry always knows when people are up for it. Everyone’s  _always_ up for it, with Harry. Niall’s had his fair share, he’s not moaning about it, but it’s nothing like Harry.

"I kinda just, like. Moved up against him, and kissed him,” Harry says, softly. “And it was like - it felt like. I felt drunker just from that. I felt all spinny. And that’s when I sort of thought, like, maybe I’m in love with him. You know? Because of how he made me feel all dizzy." 

"Like it’s not just a shag,” Niall says, and maybe it comes out a little wistful, because Harry looks at him with his eyes flickering. 

“We didn’t even shag, that time. Just kissed til I fell asleep." 

"That’s like proper romance novel shit,” Niall says, trying to laugh around the weird lump in his throat. 

“But in the morning…” Harry says, letting it trail off. “Well." 

"Yeah, alright, mate.”

“Grimmy likes it a bit rough, with blowjobs,” Harry says idly. 

“Harry,” Niall says, shaking his head, trying to seem long-suffering instead of painfully curious. “Goddamnit." 

Harry just laughs. 

"Wait - giving or receiving?” Niall asks, despite himself, and Harry bursts into renewed laughter. 

“Both,” he chokes out. “You pervert.”

“How am I the fucking pervert?” Niall says, giggling a little. Harry’s raspy stoner laugh is infectious. 

“You just are,” Harry says, suddenly solemn. “You are always the pervert." 

"And you’re always a slag." 

"Match made in heaven,” Harry says, grinning. 

“Not even the godssss aboveeee,” Niall sings, and Harry snorts loud and buries his face in Niall’s shoulder. 

“You’re an idiot,” he says, and Niall whines in protest, and tries his very best not to get hard. Harry smells good, is the thing - like faded chlorine, and lime and sugar and booze and weed and sweat. All of Niall’s favorite things for someone to smell like. And he’s high, and Harry’s high, and just - Niall wouldn’t mind if Harry, like. Touched him a bit. 

He wonders if Harry likes it a bit rough, too.

Harry reaches up and touches Niall’s cheek, with two fingers. 

“Haz,” Niall mumbles, and Harry kisses his mouth very softly, sucks Niall’s bottom lip between his own and lets it go slowly.  

“Night, Nialler,” he says, soft and breathy, and he rolls away. 

Niall lies there, staring at Harry’s back, his pulse thudding heavy between his legs.

“You’re an arsehole,” he says, after a minute, and Harry snorts sleepily. 

“Go to bed, Niall." 

Niall palms at his dick, clenching his jaw, and then closes his eyes. 

"I hate you,” he says, because he has to say  _something_. He wonders if that’s what it’s like to be Harry Styles, getting people hard all the bloody time, just by existing. 

Harry murmurs something and tugs the duvet up. 

“Good night,” Niall mutters. “Tease." 

Harry makes a noise that might be a laugh, and Niall drifts off. 

–

a week later

–

Niall’s on his fourth round of shots, and that’s because Nick Grimshaw is an  _insane bastard_. 

"You’re fucking mad,” he laughs, as Nick knocks another back. “Don’t you have work at the arsecrack of dawn tomorrow morning?" 

"Technically this morning,” Nick says, exhaling hard, wiping his mouth. “Technically in four hours. But who’s counting?" 

"You should be, probably.”

Nick sticks his tongue out, and Niall grins at him.

“Who knew one of those wild boys from 1D would be such a nan?” Nick says, tilting his head and pushing a shotglass across the bar. 

“I’m good,” Niall laughs. 

“You’re coherent, that’s  _no_  good. Take the damn shot." 

"Doesn’t show on me, coz Irish,” Niall explains, except he maybe drops a few words and his voice goes slurry. “Been drinking since I was fourteen." 

"Well, teenage alcoholism aside, I’m going to need you to take this shot right this  _second_ ,” Nick says, gulping at a bottle of water. “That’s the only way I’ll forget that I’m the oldest wrinkliest fattest person at this party. Get pissed, help me out." 

Niall takes the shot, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, hisses through his teeth. Shots make him feel weird, sometimes, all weird and feral and like he wants to bite down on something. 

"You’re not old,” he says, after a minute. Grimmy’s already ordering another drink. “Or wrinkly or fat." 

"Look here, Niall Horan,” Nick says, leaning in, pointing at his eyes. “Look very closely. Crows’ eyes. Crows’ feet. Whatever. Crow - lines. Crows, on my face." 

Niall peers cross-eyed at Nick’s face, his vision blurring. He notices belatedly that Nick smells, like. Really good. Rich with cologne and the sharp-sweet scent of vodka. 

"Nah,” he says, pulling away. He’s kind of forgotten what they’re talking about. Nick’s mouth is really nice. Niall’s  _really drunk_. “You’re fit, mate." 

Nick laughs. "Sorry, do you mind if I get that in writing?" 

"Ha ha,” Niall says, staring at his mouth the tiniest bit.

 _He likes it a bit rough, with blowjobs_. The words pop unbidden into Niall’s head, like Harry’s there with them instead of LA writing songs. 

Giving and receiving, Harry said.  _Fuck_. 

“Hey,” he says. Nick’s flicking through his phone and doesn’t even look up. “Hey, uh. I need a wee." 

"Shit, me too,” Nick mumbles, staring at his phone screen, and he follows Niall to the loo. 

Niall takes a wee, washes his hands, tries to sort out his pickled-drunk brain. Is he actually going to try and get off with Nick Grimshaw in a fucking toilet? 

 _Harry_ , his mind reminds him.  _And he might not even fancy you._

But - drunk. Drunk’s a good excuse. Niall’s drunk, and curious, and he wants something. As much as he tries to pretend he’s not a stupidly famous popstar, he fucking  _is_. And honestly, he’s used to getting what he wants. 

Might be a bad thing, but right now it seems - good. Like a good precedent. 

“Grimmy,” he says, when Nick’s inspecting his face in the mirror, next to him. “Want to go exploring?" 

"Course I do,” Nick says, mouth curving up in an easy smile, and he follows Niall out the toilet door. 

They explore a bit - climb up the stairs and poke around until they make it up to the empty rooftop. There’s a pool and a garden, and beyond that - the whole of London, spread out. 

“Shit,” Niall murmurs, walking to the edge of the roof, curling his hands around the metal railing. Nick follows. “Wicked, innit?" 

"Wicked,” Nick repeats, sucking in a deep breath, stumbling against the railing. “Christ, I’m pissed." 

"Me too." 

"I’m blaming my poor performance tomorrow on you, Mr. One Direction." 

"No one forced you to take shots, mate,” Niall laughs. 

“You did!” Nick squawks. “With your… face. And your hair." 

"My hair." 

"Yes, you forced me with your hair,” Nick says firmly. 

“You’re a bleeding idiot.” Niall laughs, and moves closer. 

His arm brushes Nick’s on the railing, and Nick looks down at them. 

“You know,” he says. “You’ll have to dye your hair if you want to keep being the blonde one. But I was _thinking_ , like, you should go pink. I’ve done it. Weirdly freeing." 

Niall draws in a shaky breath, feeling that giddy sort of pre-leap anticipation in his chest. 

"Shut up,” he says, voice breaking, and he tugs at Nick’s arm, turns into him and reaches up for a kiss. 

Nick goes stiff for a minute, rigid and confused in front of him, and then he just - melts into it. 

“Ohh,” he murmurs, fingers curling around Niall’s shoulder, and Niall stretches up to meet him and kisses him hard. Nick’s tongue is wet and thick in his mouth, and when did they start snogging? When did that happen? Niall doesn’t remember much. His head is spinning. 

Nick tastes good, like rum, and his mouth is soft. His mouth is soft, and Niall’s drunk, and it makes his whole body tingle. 

He shudders when Nick slips a hand down to his arse, gives him a squeeze. God. If Nick likes it rough that way too, Niall’s hit the fucking jackpot. But they’re not - they haven’t got time. 

“God,” Nick mumbles, pulling back. “Have you drunkenly mistaken me for someone in your league, popstar?" 

"Shut up,” Niall says. “Mate, you’re - let me. Let me suck you off, yeah?" 

"Fuck, yeah, alright,” Nick says, sounding shell-shocked and already appreciative, and they stumble back off the roof into the hallway, get into the first open room they find. It’s a closet, which, alright. Niall’s not picky. 

He goes to his knees, ignoring the twinge in his leg, and Nick strokes over his chin, his hair, his fingers long and warm as they shiver over Niall’s skin. 

“I’m so pissed,” he says, low, slurred. “You’re not too pissed to do this, are you?" 

"Nah, mate,” Niall says, fumbling for the zip of Nick’s jeans. It’s probably true, anyway. He pulls Nick’s pants down, skimming his hands over the skin of Nick’s hips. Nick gives a gratifying shiver, huffs out a groan. “Don’t, like - me gag reflex’s shit. I still like it, so don’t freak out. I won’t be sick or naught." 

Nick’s hand tightens in his hair, and Niall goes hot all down his neck and just - goes for it. Thank fuck Nick’s hard. He’s got a nice cock. Niall’s not sucked cock in a  _while_ , honestly, and Nick’s - a good way to ease back in. Hard and thick and curved just a bit to the left, and Niall lets his eyes slip shut and slides his mouth down over the head, gets Nick wet. 

Above him, Nick groans. Niall kisses the head, thumbs Nick’s foreskin back and licks eagerly at the precome leaking bitter from his slit, and Nick huffs out a breath. 

"Shit,” he mutters. “God that’s good." 

Niall hasn’t even gotten  _started_ , but he lets the compliment sink in anyway. It’s one of the nicest little thrills, being told he’s good at sucking dick. He gets smoke blown up his arse about everything else, but sucking dick’s like - his. His thing. 

Oh god, he’s drunk. Nick’s cock is heavy on his bottom lip, leaking onto his tongue, and he stops playing around, sinks his mouth down around it, gagging a little as it presses against the back of his throat, loving the burn of it. 

Nick’s sort of quiet, which Niall didn’t expect. He grunts and groans low in his throat and stuffs a hand over his mouth until he uncovers it to whisper, "Gonna come, love-” and spills down Niall’s throat. 

Niall swallows, feeling strangely greedy about it. It goes down easier than vodka, anyway. 

“Bloody hell,” Nick breathes, wondering and appreciative. “Fucking godsend, your mouth." 

 _Better than Harry?_  Niall wonders, suddenly, and then shoves the thought out of his mind. Stupid. He doesn’t do that sort of shit. 

"C'mere,” Nick says softly, Niall still at his feet, licking at the edges of his stretched-open mouth. He feels dizzy, used, happy about it. “Come up here, let me take care of you, eh?" 

He helps Niall to his feet, then moves his palm down, cups the bulge of Niall’s dick in his jeans. That’s - _fuck_. Niall forgets about his dick, sometimes, when he’s sucking someone off. But Nick’s hand is massive, covering him completely, and Niall’s not bloody well forgetting now.

"Want my mouth?” Nick mumbles, kissing his ear. “Or my hand?" 

He’s rubbing against Niall’s cock as he speaks, and Niall can’t wait another fucking second, so he chokes out, "Hand,” and groans in relief when Nick unzips his jeans with one deft hand and curls his fingers around Niall. 

Nick jerks him off fast and tight and rough, his hand a bit dry and so, so huge that Niall feels almost ill with want every time he sneaks a glance downward.

“Lovely prick you’ve got,” Nick says conversationally, smoothing down the length of it, using Niall’s precome to get him wet. “And Christ, what a mouth. You do that often, Niall? Suck cock?" 

"Ungh,” Niall gasps, mouth slack, pressing himself against Nick as Nick jerks him off. “Once - once in a while." 

"You boybanders and your penchant for sucking dick,” Nick whispers against his neck, and Niall thinks about Harry, dark-eyed and quiet and murmuring  _I think we were in love, Nialler_. Fuck. It’s sick, but it just makes him harder. Nick is so fit, and so solid under him, and his hand is so sure and steady and _good_  on Nick’s cock.

He rubs his thumb over the head and Niall whimpers, sets his teeth into the meat of Nick’s shoulder, against Nick’s shirt. 

“Fuck, like that,” he slurs, mouth open, panting. “Again, again." 

"Again?” Nick murmurs, thumbing over the slit another time, his thumb rough against the tip. “You’re sensitive there, eh? Love when a boy’s sensitive right-  _there_." 

His fingernail skims against Niall for the briefest moment, and Niall sobs out a breath and comes all over Nick’s hand, his mind going white and fuzzy. 

When he comes to, he’s slumped all over Nick’s chest, and Nick’s stroking his softening cock, his palm slick with Niall’s come. 

"Alright?” Nick says softly. Niall’s twitching with aftershocks, the slide of Nick’s hand on his dick making him shudder, raw and fucked-out. 

“Yeah,” Niall manages, his voice hoarse. His throat hurts, a sharp sort of ache in the back. “Yeah, all good." 

Nick draws him up into a kiss. 

"So,” he says, and laughs. 

Niall laughs too. “So." 

"So, it’s like - shit, it’s half two.” Nick has his phone out now. “And Fiona’s called me four times. I should ring her back.”

“Yeah, I should probably - head out,” Niall says, dazedly. He does up his jeans. 

“Hey,” Nick says, drawing him in by the arm, kissing his nose, then his half-open mouth. “That was - really fucking nice. Oh, shit, Fi’s ringing, soz, soz, soz- hello?" 

He puts the phone to his ear. 

"Hi, babe,” he says. Niall takes a step back, takes a breath. His pants are already going cold and sticky from where he’s come over himself, and all a sudden all he wants is to be home, in bed, in clean pants. 

He’s tired. And Nick’s lovely - it’s not Nick. He’s just tired, and maybe guilty. The littlest bit. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Nick says. “I’m just - upstairs. yeah, I’ll come down. Alrightttt. Yes- god, Fifi, step away from her, you mad creature. Yeah. I’ll be right there. Alright." 

He hangs up. 

"Sorry,” he says, voice loud in the small room. “My friend’s about to get thrown out for stalking Posh Spice." 

Niall forces a laugh. 

"So, er,” Nick says, shifting from foot to foot. “I’ll - I’ll see you around, Niall Horan?" 

"See you around,” Niall says, pasting a grin over his face. “If you’re lucky." 

"Ha,” Nick breathes. “Good night." 

And then he’s slipping out, and Niall’s alone in the closet. 

He takes a couple deep breaths, digs out his phone. 

 _still here mate_? he sends to Liam, and gets a text back in a minute flat. 

_naaaa on my way hoooome u alrite????xx_

_yeah all good. night payno_ , Niall texts back, and puts his phone in his pocket, feels at his raw lips. They’ll be red for a bit, he knows from experience, but hopefully everyone’s too pissed to notice. 

He sucks in another shaky deep breath and shoves the door open. 

–

big weekend 2014

–

"Haz?” Niall calls, bouncing on the balls of his feet, skin buzzing. The crowd’s loud, outside. They weren’t kidding when they said Glasgow was mad. “Hazza, we’re on in a half hour, Liam wants to warm up in the green room, c'mon now." 

He shoves the door open, and sees a blur of movement, stops dead. 

Harry’s on the sofa, sprawled with legs open, and - and someone’s knelt in front of him, and - oh. Niall takes a step backward, because that’s Grimmy. Grimmy’s in front of him, on his knees, and Harry has his jeans open, and- 

"Mind giving me a minute?” Harry asks, voice unreadable, low, looking up at him.  “I’ll be right out." 

Nick says nothing, just lets out a choked sound that might be a laugh, his head bent, facing away from Niall. The back of his neck is bright red.

"Sorry,” Niall says, weirdly breathless. “Sorry. Um- sorry." 

He shuts the trailer door, stares into space for a second, and then bounds off to warm up. 

Harry comes in ten minutes later, squeezes Niall’s shoulders with both hands, all touchy like he is after he gets off. 

"Heyyy,” he says into Niall’s ear. Niall tries not to shiver. “Sorry for the show." 

Niall nods. "No worries, mate.”  

“Cheers,” Harry murmurs, and he kisses Niall’s neck, below the ear, then backs away, gives him a wink and joins in on Liam’s warmup scales. 

–

After the show, Harry drags him onto a different jet back to Ireland than the other lads, sprawls out next to him. 

“Sorry about earlier,” he says, tapping his fingers on his thigh, looking over at Niall. His mouth’s curving up at the edges, cheekily. He doesn’t seem that sorry. 

Niall doesn’t hate people, as a rule, and he doesn’t hate Harry. Could  _never_. It’s just that sometimes, he wants to smack Harry straight across his smug dimpled face. Just once. 

“No big deal,” he says, clenching his hand around the armrest as they take off, letting out a sigh when they’re up. Harry’s texting and not looking at him. 

“Hey,” Niall says, once the plane’s leveled off. “Thought you weren’t, like. With him anymore." 

Harry looks over at him. 

"Grimmy, I mean,” Niall clarifies, feeling his face heat. 

“Not with, no,” Harry says, brow furrowing. “But we - dunno. It’s like we can't  _not_. Know what I mean?" 

Niall really doesn’t. He doesn’t know what it’s like to have someone you just can’t stop shagging,  _can’t_ , even if it’s stupid and it hurts people. 

"Yeah,” he says, because saying no would make Harry explain further, and Niall’s tired. 

Harry smiles at him. “Heyyyy. Croker. You ready?" 

"Massively and completely ready,” Niall says, squinting at him, giving Harry a thumbs-up. “After a nap." 

"C'mere,” Harry says, and he pulls Niall’s head down to his shoulder, scritches fingernails over his scalp. “Kip a bit, Nialler, s'alright." 

Niall stays there, quiet and still under Harry’s hand, and even though his stomach is strangely tight and tense, he manages to fall asleep. 

When he wakes up he’s alone - Harry curled up in a seat on the other side of the plane, scrolling through his phone, one long leg dangling. Niall watches him for a moment, before Harry susses out that he’s awake. Sometimes he thinks he loves Harry. Sometimes he thinks Harry is the most effortless person Niall’s ever even been near, and sometimes he thinks Harry is such a fucking arsehole. 

He doesn’t know how to keep it all straight in his head. 

Harry looks up, a smile spreading warm across his face. 

"Niaaaall,” he says, raspy and low. “Have a good sleep, babe? Nearly there." 

 _Love_ , Niall thinks desperately, resisting the strange, wild urge to crawl across the floor of the plane on hands and knees. To put his head in Harry’s lap.  _Oh, shit, it’s probably love._  He sucks in a breath, nods, and turns away. Alright.

He can handle it, then, now that he knows what he’s dealing with. He’s always been able to handle himself. 


End file.
